


Homecoming

by ijustwanttodestroy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Court of Owls, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 14:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15559983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustwanttodestroy/pseuds/ijustwanttodestroy
Summary: His memory is a hazed thing. A paper going through a shredder. It’s being butchered.





	Homecoming

Dick Grayson is observant.

 

This particular aspect of his, he uses very well. Exceptionally, even. After all, in his line of work (the light to the dark, caped crusader without the cape, police officer, spider in the web, back to being the caped crusader without the cape), he has to use whatever the hell there is in his inventory of abilities to survive. Dick Grayson has always got a knack of the art of reading people, for better (or for worse).It’s saved lives. It’s broken hearts. Whether he likes it or not, Dick has many talents —

 

 

_you’ve always known. you were born for this, Gray Son._

 

 

— one of which is to manipulate. Another is to _k_ —

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dick Grayson is not a killer.

 

 

_are you, now?_

 

 

Dick Grayson is not a killer. Dick Grayson is a hero, he died once to save the fucking world, god damn it, and he would do it again, _again, again_ — he would die for Bruce, he would die _for_ —

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dick Grayson is a hero. He’s sworn an oath. He’s made a promise, _two will fight against crime and corruption, never to swerve from the path of righteousness_ — he remembers warmth. The candle casting shadows to Bruce’s face, his features sharp and soft under the golden light. His hand on Bruce’s. He’s made a promise. He remembers warmth.

 

He feels so, so cold.

 

 

 

 

_Gray Son._

 

 

 

 

He knows how to use people. He knows how to read them, like a book, he always could, he knows what to do to appease them, to push their buttons, he knows how to — he’s always, _always_ — sometimes, Dick thinks that he knows others better than he knows himself.

 

He’s always been good at what he does. He’s always loved flying. He’s always loved _moving_ , prowling, he’s always loved _violence,_ he’s so _angry,_ sometimes, so fucking _angry_ he just wants to hurt, he just wants to fly, wants to _k_ —

 

 

 

_you’ve always known. you were born for this, Gray Son._

 

 

 

 

Dick Grayson is observant.

 

“What the hell are you doing to me,” he says. He feels cold. So, so cold. “What have you _done_ to me?”

 

He isn’t sure if anyone hears him. He isn’t sure if he manages to form words at all. He just feels _cold._ The world is cold and dark and full of nothing.

 

 

 

Dick Grayson is not a killer.

 

 

 

 

(Remember how angry he feels sometimes?)

 

 

(So angry. Terrible writhing ugliness welling inside his chest. Remember how the blood feels splattering against his cheek. Electric. Hands wet with blood. Wet in the worst way; slick, sticky. Red. Bones crunching under his fingertips. Remember how good it feels? How alive?)

 

 

 

(Dick Grayson killed, once.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cold. Darkness smothers him. He remembers Bruce’s cape, remembers being wrapped around it, remembers how big and warm and _safe_ he’d felt. This darkness, this darkness is smothering him. Choking him. Distantly, he thinks he’s falling. Down, down, down.

 

His memory is a hazed thing. A paper going through a shredder. It’s being butchered.

 

Red hair. Burns him like a flame. Tears on his chest. Her voice sounds like summer. _Boy Wonder_. A name, a name at the tip of his tongue. _B_ — ?

 

Red hair. Green eyes. Brilliant, brilliant skin, glowing like sunset smattering upon the sky, the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen, _K_ — ?

 

Red hair. Freckles. _Robbie_. Laughter. _It’s good to see you, buddy_ —

 

He thinks he has a brother. No, _brothers._ He thinks he’s lost a brother. _Brothers_. He thinks he has a _son_. He thinks he has a sister.

 

 

 

 

 _do you, now_?

 

 

 

 

“Stop it,” he says. “Please, stop it.”

 

 

_Gray Son._

 

 

 _“Enough —_ no more, _please_ , don’t _take them_ from me — “

 

 

_you’ve always known. you were born for this._

 

 

Falling, falling.

 

 

“Stop, fucking _stop_ , I _can’t_ , _I’m_ — “

 

 

_you are?_

 

 

 

 

 _Dick Grayson._ Richard Grayson. Son of Jonathan Grayson and Mary Loyd and — ? Single son. He is alone. _I’m never alone_. No brothers. No sisters. No parents. No one. _I’m never alone._ He is alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Dick.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dick looks up. He says, “Jason, what the hell are you doing here?”

 

Jason looks at him, the word unimpressed written all over his face. He is wearing the Robin uniform. _Dick’s_ Robin uniform. No, that’s not quite right, is it? Jason has earned it. It’s _Jason_ ’s uniform now. “Hey, Dick. You told me you were gonna show me that move you did.”

 

They are in the Manor. The fireplace is lit, cackling quietly. Dick can smell something cooking from the kitchen. The carpet is lush and warm under his feet. Jason looks at him expectantly, arms folded in that defiant way of his.

 

Dick smiles. “Which one?”

 

“The really cool one. The one where B yelled at you.”

 

“Oh,” he says. “Sure.”

 

Something is wrong.

 

Jason raises one eyebrow. “Well?” he says. Jason’s hair is jet black. He dyed it, Dick remembers. His hair was red. His face is young. A fourteen year old, cheeks plump and tan, skin unscathed. He is shorter than Dick. Jason always said that he was going to be taller than him, one day.

 

 _Oh,_ Dick thinks. The air feels cold. It feels like the floor drops under him, plunging him again, down, down, down.

 

“Jason,” Dick says, standing from the sofa. “You died.”

 

Jason rolls his eyes, his hands on his hips. “Obviously. I came back, didn’t I?”

 

Dick stares at him.

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

Dick doesn’t. Jason _died_. Jason is _dead._

 

“Oh, Dickiebird,” Jason says, and he walks until he is right in front of Dick. His height reaching Dick’s shoulders. Jason tilts his head, like a bird. His eyes are scrutinizing, blue and bright and intelligent. He says, “you moron. They’re eating up your memories.”

 

But Dick isn’t listening. He kneels, so his eyes can meet Jason’s, and Dick is holding Jason’s cheeks, making sure that he is real. And he _feels_ real, he feels _warm_ , his skin is _skin_. Human. Alive. Not a corpse buried six feet under the ground. “Jason,” Dick chokes. He is crying. “ _Little Wing._ Please come back. Please come back. I’m sorry I left. I’m so fucking _sorry_ — ”

 

Jason doesn’t shove his hands. He lets himself be held, and he looks at Dick, with this particular look he gives Dick when he thinks Dick is being an annoying jerk. “Dickface,” Jason says, and he shakes his head a little, disapprovingly. “They’re eating up your memories, dumbass.”

 

But Dick isn’t listening. He can’t. He holds Jason’s face between his hands, holding him so tight he swears he’s never letting go. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it comes out like a sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been there, Jay, I swear, if I’d _known_ — I’m so fucking _sorry_. Bruce needs you, Jason, Bruce _misses_ you — _I miss you_ , please —“

 

“Dick,” Jason tells him, impatient, shaking his head again in that disapproving way. “Listen to me. They’re eating up your memories. You gotta remember.”

 

And then another voice says, “yeah, Dickie. You gotta remember.”

 

Dick turns. It’s a man he doesn’t recognize. He has jet black hair, dyed streaks of white on the front. Strong built, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. He is taller than Dick. The stranger looks at Dick with an unimpressed look on his face. Something about his face is dreadfully familiar.

 

Dick looks back to Jason to find that he’s changed. His hair are slick with blood. So is his face, beaten and swollen — nearly beyond recognition. One side of his face is bashed in, and he’s bleeding, his face a mess of colors and flesh.Blood dripping steadily from his face, from his hands, _drip drip drip_ to the floor _._ His robin uniform is tainted, ripped, mangled. Spray painted, words written on it in sick yellow hues. Dick’s hands, still cupping Jason’s face, are wet in the worst way, slick and sticky. Red all over.

 

Then, both of the man and Jason say impatiently, in unison, their voices morphing into one: “you gotta remember, Dickie.”

 

And then the ground opens and they fall. But Dick isn’t, he is _watching_ them fall, two people, on the trapeze, Jason’s arms reaching out to him, his bones jutting from his elbows, wrist bending in a crooked way it’s not supposed to — and Dick blinks and Jason isn’t _Jason_ anymore — he is the man in the leather jacket, the man he doesn’t know. He is reaching out to him. Dick reaches back.

 

“Dick,” the man says, eyes blue and bright and dreadfully familiar.

 

Their hands never met.

 

“ _Daj_!” Dick screams, “ _Dat_!”

 

And then he falls, too, into the dark, into the cheering crowd and the ground rushing up to meet him in a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Wake up, Chum.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Someone is holding him, smoothing his hair back. The bed is soft and silky under him. Dick opens his eyes. A big man is holding him. “It’s just a dream,” the man says, his voice low and gruff and comforting. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

 

“I w-want them _back_ ,” Dick says, and he is still crying, because he _wants them back._ He needs them, he _misses_ them. “I know, Chum,” the man says. “I know.”

 

“I miss them,” Dick sobs. “I m-miss them _s-so much_.”

 

The man holds him tighter, and Dick looks at him through his tears, and —

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something is wrong, a voice inside his head whispers. It sounds like his own.

 

_nothing is wrong._

 

 

 

 

 

“What is it, Dick?” the man says to him, his voice low and gentle. His eyes are blue and bright.

 

Dick looks at him and he says, “who are you?”

 

Before the man replies, the ground opens. Dick falls.

 

He is falling this time. No, flying, he is _flying_. He knows this. He loves this. It’s nightfall. The city is alight, as usual, the city is _alive_. He is flying, limbs twirling in the air, wind in his hair, adrenaline coursing through his veins like his very blood. He was _born_ for this. Born to split the sky open. The ground is rushing to meet him, aching to meet him in a kiss. He is flirting with the earth, dancing with gravity. He is —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Something is missing, a voice inside his head whispers.

 

_you had nothing to begin with._

 

 

 

 

 

 

What is he doing here? He stops. The city is alight. The wind in his hair. The familiar, blistering smell of smoke and gunpowder and rain. The sounds of chattering, traffic, faint yelling and screaming. It’s all familliar. _Too_ familliar. Dick stops, and he isn’t flying anymore, he is falling from a skyscrapper, the ground rushing to meet him in a kiss, and the only thing he can think is that — despite how familiar, how at _home_ he feels — he doesn’t know where he is.

 

Something is wrong. Something is missing. What is he doing? What is he — what _is_ he — ?

 

 

 

 

 _Gray Son,_ the voice says. The one that isn’t his. _wake up._

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up.

 

 

 

The first thing he notices are his hands. They are wet in the worst way; slick, sticky. Wet in the _best_ way.

 

He smells iron. He sees red.

 

The question is: whose blood are those?

 

The second thing he notices is the knife he is holding.

 

 _the question is,_ the voice says, amused, _what have_ you _done_?

 

The third thing he notices is a woman. She is on the ground. Twitching, like a fish out of water. She is grabbing at her neck. It’s bleeding. Lacerated artery. The blood is spilling from her slit-open neck like a faucet. She will die in approximately fifty seconds. Fourty nine. Fourty eight. Fourty seven —

 

 _take out her heart,_ the voice says.

 

Dick Grayson is not a killer.

 

Richard Grayson is observant.

 

Richard Grayson is — _Dick Grayson is not a killer_ — Richard Grayson was born to be a killer. He is efficient. He is silent. He was born for this. Born to split the sky open. He is graceful. He is death. He flies through the air with the greatest of ease. Son of Jonathan Grayson and Mary Loyd. No brothers. No sisters. Single son. No parents. He is alone. The last Flying Grayson.

 

Richard Grayson is obedient.

 

He crouches, cuts the knife into her chest cleanly. He is efficient. He takes out her heart.

 

 

 

 _this is all you need,_ they say. _this is all you need to remember._

 

 

 

Richard Grayson is a killer. Richard Grayson is a weapon. Richard Grayson is obedient.

 

He will remember this, and only this.

 

 

 _ welcome home, _  they say.

 

He's home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr if you want to tell me anything](https://i-just-want-to-destroy.tumblr.com)   
> 


End file.
